


More Conversations with Vigilantes

by tryptophan



Series: When They're not Saving the World [4]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Catholicism, Christmas, Coffee, Conversations, Ficlet Collection, Fluffy Angst, Gen, Saints, angsty fluff, norman osborne - President
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9117193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryptophan/pseuds/tryptophan
Summary: Conversations between Vigilantesouttakes, post-credits scenes, deleted scenes. Character exploration of Matt Murdock and Frank Castle. After Frank killed the Blacksmith and Elektra died, Matt and Frank both ended up very lonely. Sometimes they meet up on rooftops in Hell's Kitchen and share food and/or drink and chat about whatever's on their minds. These chapters are not in chronological order, but rather interspersed in the timeline of Conversations, which is not required reading. Each chapter of this and Conversations could stand as its own vignette.





	1. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our lonely vigilantes are alone on Christmas Eve and discuss the true meaning of Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of the fifteenth chapter of [Conversations between Vigilantes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6456172/chapters/14775274). You don't have to read that to get this, though. Basically, Frank will sometimes show up on Matt's turf unarmed. Matt will find him and they'll chat. Elektra left her personal fortune to Matt, so he does mostly pro bono work to help people in Hell's Kitchen.

**Hell’s Kitchen, New York City. December 24 th, 11:59 PM.**

Church bells tolled out from the city streets below. Frank unscrewed the cap of his thermos of coffee, poured out two fingers of the tepid liquid, and tossed it back.

“What is that, midnight?” called out a solemn voice. Matt walked across the rooftop where, over a year ago, Frank had chained him to a chimney, taped a gun to his hand, and told him that it was either Frank or Grotto.

Frank exhaled a humorless chuckle. “St. Matthew’s,” he replied in an equally solemn, resigned voice. None of the live current that ran through him when he pulled that stunt was present now. He half-turned toward Matt and held out his thermos of lukewarm coffee. Matt paused, and then reached out to accept a drink.

“Didn’t expect to find you up here, freezing your ass off on Christmas Eve,” Matt needled. “Reminiscing over the good times, when you got the jump on me and killed Grotto?”

“You coulda stopped me,” Frank replied without heat. “You coulda ended all of this that night.” Matt sighed. “But we both know why you didn’t, and we both know why you won’t now,” Frank continued before he and Matt could resume their interminable argument. He gestured with his chin towards where the sound of the bells had come from. “Why aren’t you down there? Shouldn’t you be at Midnight Mass, or with Karen or Foggy?”

Matt leaned back against a brick chimney. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and sighed. “I… didn’t want to impose,” he replied at length.

Frank just shook his head sadly. “You’re so goddamn arrogant, you know that? You have people who love you, who want you to be around, and you think your pain matters more than their joy.”

“Karen’s family contacted her,” Matt began, “and she’s visiting them. She didn’t seem happy to go, nor did she invite me along. Foggy’s parents invited me to their place, but things are still weird between Foggy and I, so I told them I had promised St. Agnes’ Orphanage I’d volunteer with the kids this year, and they understood.”

“Did you actually promise to volunteer with the kids?” Frank asked.

“I did," Matt affirmed. "I’m bringing presents tomorrow morning, and taking them to a movie in the afternoon.”

“Ain't you just the spirit of Christmas,” Frank replied, trying for cynicism and mostly failing. He turned and sat down, setting his back against the wall on the edge of the roof. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here and not in bed, or in your Devil suit, or in church. Even bad Catholics go to Midnight Mass,” he teased.

“Did you go?” Matt deflected.

“I’m sitting on a roof, not in church, ain’t I?” Frank retorted. Matt made a “get on with it” hand gesture. Frank sighed and continued. “Maria used to make sure we all went. We didn’t go to Midnight; the kids weren’t old enough, but we went to the children’s Mass earlier on Christmas Eve. Sat through lots of off-key singing and Nativity plays.” Frank poured a shot of cold coffee entirely to distract himself from remembering what had been. He was not going to think about sleepy, excited children bundled against the cold, nor of incense and candles (three purple, one pink, no-- rose). He refused to think about the hum of anticipation that buzzed through the congregation, knowing that _something_ great was about to happen, was just out of reach, and if they were just patient and had faith it would come. He shut from his mind the memory of Lisa figuring out about Santa, being sad for a beat, and then realizing she could be like Santa, like the spirit of Christmas, and bring joy and love to those around her, even if she got no recognition for it. He briefly recalled Junior crawling into bed between him and Maria, because he was afraid of Santa coming when he was awake and being angry, and his parents would protect him because that’s what parents did. Instead, he needled Matt again. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why aren’t you down there amongst your people?”

Matt sighed. “Christmas is… hard… for me.” His hands idly traced the edges of the chimney, and he absently wondered whether he could find the grooves made by the chains Frank had use on him. “For a long time, it was just my dad and I. We never had much money, but we had each other, and he’d take me on Christmas Eve. After he died, the Sisters at the orphanage had all the kids go together, and even though there was enough sadness to sink a boat, it was still something we did _together_. After I met Foggy, I spent every Christmas with him and his family. They were mostly lapsed at that point, so we’d stay in Christmas Eve, and just be warm and cozy and maybe a little drunk together.” Frank barked out a laugh. “Okay, maybe a lot drunk. Uncle Jimmy liked his whiskey,” continued Matt. “Christmas is about being with people, with your family….” he trailed off.

“So you’re up here with me instead,” Frank supplied. “I ain’t your family, Red.”

“I know,” Matt replied simply, leaving the tacit “but you haven’t got any, either,” hanging.

“Christmas is a kids’ holiday,” Frank started. Matt made to reply, but Frank cut him off. “No, I don’t mean presents and Santa and all that, or not just that. I mean religiously. When is Christ more human than a helpless newborn born into straw poverty? And all the hope and promise and potential laid upon a tiny baby whose life is valued less than pretty much anyone else’s? Who the ruler of the day will try to kill in his cradle? Whose parents became refugees to protect him? One small child to save the world, and that pattern repeated in every birth.”

“Seminary did you some good…?” Matt offered mildly, not sure what to make of Frank’s surprisingly earnest insight.

“Wasn’t seminary,” Frank replied, shaking his head. “Maria told me all that. We didn’t have much when Lisa was born, and she had some epiphany about how Mary must’ve felt, wanting to give her baby the world, but knowing she was giving her baby to the world, knowing that the world would just hurt him,” he finished, trying to for callous indifference and falling well-short.

“And you don’t have that anymore, so that’s why you’re here,” Matt supplied.

“I don’t _believe_ that anymore, so that’s why I’m here,” Frank countered.

“Maybe Christmas is a children’s holiday,” Matt began slowly, “but there’s still a part for the adults to play. Yeah, presents and stuff are nice, and I’ll certainly be doing that tomorrow, but there’s a lot of talk about peace, love, and joy. And those aren’t just platitudes, or at least, they shouldn’t be. Maybe we should do our part to ensure the world doesn’t just leave the children scratched up and scarred, or so that no family will ever have to become refugees to keep their child from dying.”

Frank made a non-committal noise. “You go be a bleeding heart pro-bono lawyer and save the good people. I’ll continue stamping out the cockroaches.”

“You’ll take the ‘naughty’ list, I’ll take the ‘nice’?”

“Something like that,” grunted Frank.

Matt smiled sadly. “The ‘naughty’ list isn’t nearly as long as you think.” He stood up and made his way to the door to the stairwell. “Merry Christmas, Frank.”

Frank waited for the door to close and the sound of Matt’s footsteps to recede. “Merry Christmas, Red.”


	2. Confirmation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, Saint Joseph, I never weary contemplating you and Jesus asleep in your arms; I dare not approach while He reposes near your heart. Press Him in my name and kiss his fine head for me and ask him to return the Kiss when I draw my dying breath._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> In which our lonely vigilantes discuss Confirmation names and other esoteric Catholic things, and in doing so reveal aspects of themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Conversations with Vigilantes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6456172/chapters/14775274) was originally supposed to have fifteen chapters. The missing chapter was supposed to be on masculinity, but I couldn't make it work. This is what that chapter turned into.

Matt and Frank sat on a rooftop in view of the Hudson. The view was largely lost on Matt. He could tell it was quieter in that direction, and that the sun was just barely below the horizon. It seemed to have some effect on Frank, however, whose body didn’t radiate tension and rage the way it normally did. As was their way, Frank had shown up with food (burgers and fries, this time), bad coffee, and minimal weapons. Matt snagged his gear and followed the sound of his heartbeat and the scent of metal, blood, and oil that defined Frank.

They barely greeted each other, but rather just set about eating in a silence that was comfortable for both. Once he’d finished, Matt wiped the grease from his fingers, leaned back as relaxed as he could get when wearing the Daredevil persona, and took in his surroundings. Spring was in full force, and the trees and flowers grew with urgency, as though they felt they had to make up for all winter in a few weeks.

“Smells like flowers. Everywhere,” Matt remarked, breaking the silence.

“That time of year,” Frank shrugged. “Why, you get super allergies to go with your super senses?”

“No, I think that’s an immune system thing. As far as I know, my immune system is normal.”

Frank gazed out at the last traces of the glow from the sunset. “Saw a May crowning today.”

Matt turned towards him, a little surprised that he’d bring up an esoteric Catholic tradition. “Where? Down at St. Agnes?” He wasn’t sure where Frank was going with this. It was something he’d never personally seen, visually, but he'd attended them at the orphanage, where some of the more traditional Sisters had fought to preserve the practice. “They’re not that common anymore. You went to church?” he asked with an impish grin.

“Nooo… just passing by.” Frank swigged at his coffee. “I think they fell out of favor for a bit. I haven’t seen one since I was confirmed. My parish quit doing it the year after.”

Matt chuckled softly. Frank made an inquisitive noise.

“Sorry, it’s just I still have trouble reconciling the image of you as a good little Catholic boy with…” he trailed off. “What’s your confirmation name?” he asked finally, hoping to cover for the unintended insult.

Frank scoffed at his transparent attempt, but answered anyway. “Joseph.”

Matt tried to process the answer, which was one he wasn't expecting. “Really? Not Michael, or Sebastian, Ignatius Loyola maybe?”

“Didn’t know I was going to join the military in 10th grade. Besides—“

“Ah, right. Sicilian,” Matt corrected himself, recalling that the Italian Sisters at the orphanage had had a particular fondness for St. Joseph.

“Yep,” he agreed.

“Was there a reason other than Sicilians love St. Joseph?”

After a long moment, Frank inclined his head in acknowledgment. “When I chose the name, St. Joseph was everything I thought a man should be.” When Matt didn’t comment, he continued. “He was faithful to God and his wife. He treated Mary respectfully throughout. He could’ve divorced her quietly, but he didn’t, even though he’d look like a cuckold to everyone else.”

“Cuckolded by God,” Matt interjected. “He knew she hadn’t been unfaithful.”

“He did, but no one else did. An outsider would’ve thought it completely reasonable for him to divorce her. But he didn’t. He stayed with her. He raised her son as his own, taught him his trade. He protected them, saved their lives when Herod was after them.”

They fell into a heavy silence. Nothing Matt could say would help. Frank would always think himself guilty for failing his family. He knew Frank wasn’t one to swim long in nostalgia, and he wondered if his mood was caused by the May crowning specifically, the time of year, that he would never get to share his culture with his children, that they would never experience all that he got to. Maybe all of it. Words about the indifferent randomness of evil or the strange, brutal mercy of God would not help, nor were they Matt’s to give. “There was a prayer the Sisters used to make us say on his feast day,” Matt began hesitantly.

“Which one?”

“Sorry?”

“Which feast day?” Frank elaborated. “March or May?”

“March 19th” Matt clarified. “Do you know it?”

“Maybe,” Frank replied in a tight voice. “There’s probably lots of prayers to St. Joseph. I remember a couple.”

“It finishes ‘Oh, Saint Joseph, I never weary contemplating you and Jesus asleep in your arms; I dare not approach while He reposes near your heart. Press Him in my name and kiss his fine head for me…’” Matt trailed off, equally unwilling to poke at a sore spot or to give up trying to save Frank from himself. "It just struck me when I was a kid, because I don't recall many saints being married or having children." He didn't say that it twisted the knife in his heart that made him think of his own father, who would never kiss his forehead again. 

“Yeah,” he replied heavily. “Maybe he’ll take care of my kids for me.” He shook himself out of his stupor. “What’s yours?” he asked at length.

“Confirmation name?” Matt asked.

"Yeah."

“Hazard a guess?” Matt replied.

Frank shrugged. “St. Lucy?”

Matt sighed, half-exasperated, and rolled his eyes. “Not every blind person has a thing for St. Lucy.” He’d gotten a steady stream of “pray to St. Lucy” ever since the accident, as though she might miraculously restore his sight. It was about as tiresome as Helen Keller jokes.

Frank paused to consider. “You probably chose a fighter, or else someone stuck in his own head. So, either one of the ones you already mentioned, Michael, Ignatius Loyola, Sebastian, maybe Joan of Arc, or one of the Thomases.” He cocked his head and continued, “and since you have all of the self-preservation instincts of a jihadist lemming, maybe a martyr.”

“Actually, yes,” Matt replied. “Though that’s not why I picked him.”

“Of course not. Just a coincidence, I’m sure,” Frank replied sardonically.

“You guessed him, kind of.” When Frank didn’t respond, he continued, “Thomas More.”

“That’s… actually really apt,” Frank conceded. “The man for all seasons. You see that movie?"

Matt nodded.

"Patron saint of lawyers," Frank continued. "Wrote Utopia, picked a stupid hill to get himself martyred on.”

“It wasn’t a bad hill to die on," Matt objected. "He held firm to his principles, his conscience, and his faith. If you cut down all the laws, if the end justifies the means, if temporal gratification outweighs all else, who can survive in such a world? Who would _want_ to?” 

Frank didn’t reply, and they both sat silently for a while. Matt thought their evening chat might’ve been at an end, when Frank spoke.

“So, you’d give the Devil the benefit of the law?” he asked with a smirk.

Matt shot a crooked grin back. “Absolutely." He packed up his trash and gathered his billy clubs. "You picked the saint who saved his family from a massacre. I picked the saint who chose to die early and leave his beloved child to fend for herself."

"Let's not read too much into this, Red."

Matt just grinned at him. "See ya, Frank."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Roper: So, now you give the Devil the benefit of law!
> 
> Sir Thomas More: Yes! What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?
> 
> William Roper: Yes, I'd cut down every law in England to do that!
> 
> Sir Thomas More: Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned 'round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws, from coast to coast, Man's laws, not God's! And if you cut them down, and you're just the man to do it, do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I'd give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety's sake! 
> 
> Sts. Michael, Sebastian, and Ignatius Loyola are a few of the patron saints of soldiers. There are a lot of patron saints of soldiers.
> 
> St. Lucy is the patron saint of blind people and other eye trouble. 
> 
> There is actually a comic book basis for Frank liking St. Joseph.


	3. Dark Reign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman Osborne's running for President...

“You hear Norman Osborne’s running for President?” Frank asked.

Matt mumbled “mmhm” through a mouthful of pork and rice.

“Think he’s got a shot?”

“Nah. He’s a _literal_ supervillain,” he said as he set aside his bowl. “Not a ‘Margaret Thatcher the milk snatcher,’ or ‘I did not have sex with that woman,’ or ‘I am not a crook,’ politician, but a real, in the flesh supervillain. There’s no way people would vote for him.”

Frank shrugged as he speared a piece falling-apart-tender piece of pork. “I dunno. He’s running on a ‘tough on superheroes’ platform. People are pretty pissed about superheroes. There was the aborted registration act. All the shit the Avengers caused. The fuckin’ Hulk alone. You and me, probably. People are scared. They’ll shoot themselves in the foot so long as the other guy gets shot in both feet.”

Matt shrugged. “I’m not too worried about it. He’s polling badly, and anyone can see he’s grossly unqualified for the job.”

Frank looked skeptical. “I don’t know, man. Cubs won the World Series. We might be in the bad timeline.”

Matt just chuckled and shook his head. “We’ll see come election day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not well-versed with the comics, Norman Osborne, aka The Green Goblin, indeed ran for President, and won...


End file.
